#wakezane

Pitch-black room illuminated by the light from unknown sourse in the middle. Outlines of the mantelplace and the painting above it can be made out from the darkness. TOM and WAKE are slowly swaying in the centre. The song is in foreign language, barely legible through the static, plays as accompaniment by the radio on the mantelplace.

WAKE: Good we finally have some time to talk.

WAKE pulls away a little, to look TOM in the eyes.

WAKE: It's a shame we couldn't discuss it earlier. You're busy, I know.

WAKE cups TOM's cheek, both gazing lovingly at each other.

WAKE: Just want to say, you did wonderfully with your hero role. Loved every second of your interpretation.

TOM's gaze shifts. WAKE rolls his eyes.

WAKE: No, i'm not salty about being a villain, anymore. The drama, the contrast, I get it, now. I think I did a decent job. You asked me to it, anyway. And I did it, because of you.

WAKE puts his head on the TOM's shoulder, lowering his voice.

WAKE: I just... just wanted some... feedback, you know? A little thing. Like...

WAKE presses his head into TOM's neck. The tie, hastly wrapped around the latter's neck,

WAKE: I need you, too, Scratch.

A bang. The light. The floor. My blood spilling. The room spinning. The loud ticking of my old typewriter. Words of ink pressed onto white paper.

Rinse, repeat.

The memories fade already. Dreams half remembered. Were they even dreams? Hard to say.

No time to waste.

Echoes of my steps on the cold and wet pavement of a nearly empty New York City. Buildings looming over me, not quite where they belong. Shadows that hiss as I pass them. The echo of a payphone ringing in the distance. I know I need to take the call, so I drag my feet to the lit up booth. I feel uneasy as my shaky hand grabs the receiver but as always, I reluctantly pull it to my ear.

His voice. Smooth and familiar. We exchange the same words as always. I remember. Fantastic. A hint of deception. Grab the key. It's always here. Come to the hotel. He's always there.

I hang up. Turn around. Sigh.

A moment of inattention. The ghostly grip of a hand around my throat, pushing me back. I hit the ground. The shape blends with the rest of the shadows before I even have time to shine my flashlight at it. I get back on my feet, the thick fabric of my suit sticking to my skin. I grumble under my breath and sigh, again. What does it matter anyway. I get back on track and make a bee line to Oceanview hotel. I remember this time. I've been remembering more lately. I must have been stuck here for a while, repeating the same steps over and over until they became a routine, muscle memory. I try not to let the thoughts linger.

Wooden double doors. Red carpet. Silent elevator. Sixth floor. Room 665. Neighbour of the Beast.

Thomas Zane is as intense yet enigmatic as ever. I'm tired and confused as always.

It's like all my memories of our previous encounters didn't pass the threshold with me. Was there something about this room that set it apart from the rest of the Dark Place? Why did I always feel so helpless here, so out of control, like I did on Mr. Door's talk show?

Aren't I the writer of these interludes?

A hand on my shoulder. Warm, grounding. A smile beaming at me. The bright light of the diver.

"Alan, Alan... You need to stop losing yourself so much."

The uncomfortable feeling of my pants, not quite dry yet, catches my attention again. Zane must notice it, too, because he glances down and nods knowingly.

"Let's get you comfortable first, shall we?"

I'm not sure how it happens, but next thing I know, my pants feel fresh out of the dryer, and I'm sitting on the sofa next to the film-maker.

"Good. Now you can get out of your pretty little head. Relax."

I feel myself nodding. Relaxing sounds good. When was the last time I relaxed? I can almost taste the subtle aftertaste of orange juice and rum on my tongue, followed by a hint of bile. It's gone with the blink of an eye, like words scratched out on a manuscript.

Instead, there is a fresh drink in my hand. An orange cocktail. The weight of it feels familiar. Does Tom always serve me one when we meet? I take a sip while he talks. He talks a lot. Half rehearsed monologue, half genuine conversation. A tune I can't quite recognise plays softly in the background. Orange juice and rum flow down my throat, making me warm inside out.

He leads the conversation, and I follow.

Bands I used to listen to. Bands I've never heard of. Movies I'm familiar with. Movies that barely sound real. Books I've seen on my shelves. Books I don't remember writing.

He leads the scene, and I act.

I don't notice when my glass is emptied and when it is refilled, but every so often I'm aware that it's not my first drink anymore. It comes and go in a blur, but I can feel the taste of something else on my gums, on my tongue, the smell of it in my nose. I recognise the traces of vices I indulged in long ago, but they don't feel like distant memories like they should. It's becoming harder to follow.

"How is the writing going, Alan?"

A cold shiver runs down my spine and I can feel the shadows lurking in the darkest corners of my mind spread through my entire body. Memories of the writer's room come flooding. I suddenly feel like I'm forced to watch myself on one of these TVs that only ever play the most unsettling videos of myself as I pass them by. Crazy eyes, shaky voice, irrational ramblings, body shaking on the ground as tears roll down my cheeks... I don't want to remember these. I don't want to think of them. I don't want to think of what happens there. What happened. What will happen? It never goes anywhere good, I'm just trapped, trapped, trapped, trapped...

"Alan."

His tone is more serious now, almost concerned, and I snap out of my trance as our eyes cross.

He changes the soundtrack, and the mood changes.

Got up, cup of coffee, went down nice, didn't it?

Made me feel a bit moodkey

Then I stood up straight and proud, and I knew I was a man

Thought "Mama, ya done me proud"

"Care for a dance?"

I don't reply but I find myself on my feet, pulled against his warm body, as we sway drunkenly to the rhythm of the music. I haven't danced in ages. I haven't been so close to someone for about as long. It feels strange to hold someone the same height as me, the same build as me, the same eyes as me. I try to hold his gaze but it drifts down. When did he lose his blazer? I can feel him grinning. He's saying something but I don't understand. The music is too loud all of a sudden.

Here comes the cocaine man

Here comes a man

We wear friendly smiles

All night

Get bladdered on Lucifer's grain

Pray it never stop

Here comes the cocaine man

Here comes a man

His hands are keeping me close and steady ; one holding my own, long fingers not quite intertwined, the other is on my back, flat between my shoulder blades. It fills me with warmth and I absent-mindedly shuffle even closer. For a moment, I forget where I am, who I am, floating in an ocean of static.

Crash bang, when I meet her, she's beautiful, she is

She stands alone, not caring who's looking

I get lost in my mind again, the repetitive beats and rifts of the song carrying my thoughts. Memories of Alice. The first time I laid my eyes on her. The last time I saw her. The laughs we shared. The tears we cried. The nights we stayed up for each other. In this moment it's almost like I can reach her again. Like she's right here, with me, cradling me, whispering sweet nothings in my ear, comforting me like she always did so well. My free hand glides up the bare expense of her back, my fingers dancing along her spine, reaching her delicate nape. She tilts my chin up with her slender finger and her soft lips press onto mine. I bury my hand into... dark curls..?

Her name's Rebecca Trollop, and I fall right into her trap

But that's not her hair. That's not her lips. That's not her body. That's not her perfume. He's not Alice.

Bang, it's disgusting

The spell breaks and I take a step back like I've been burnt, my chest heaving. I don't look at his face, I can't focus on anything. The room is spinning, everywhere I look is blurry, and when he reaches out to me and calls my name, I punch him. My knuckles come in contact with his jaw and the crack of his bones is louder than it should be. I didn't hit that hard. There is no way something broke. I don't do this anymore. I promised her I wouldn't do it anymore. My ears ring and I stumble, the back of my foot bumps against something and I fall on my ass. I curse. Why is my typewriter here? Pages litter the ground. Did I write anything tonight? I'm struggling to keep my eyes open. The room is spinning faster and I feel sick. My eyes shut close.

I don't rest on the ground for long. At least I assume it isn't long before his hands are on me again, and I take a peak when he attempts to pull me up. His voice sounds distant although I can see how close his face is to mine. My brain feels sluggish and my body feels heavy and I can't get up. I feel so sick. He walks away, somewhere, around, he's back, right behind me, and his long arms wrap around my torso as he forces me up, holding me close to his chest again. He drags me like I'm a life sized doll, or a corpse to discard, away from the bedroom, far from the light and the warmth and into the dark and the cold, and I let him.

I feel it coming up.

He barely has enough time to help me kneel next to the toilets before I start gagging.

The chorus plays once more, it echoes in the main room as I empty my guts inside the lavatory.

He's gone. He was never here. I'm alone.

The tiles under my knees are cold like the pavement outside. The tears rolling down my cheeks are warm like her kisses.

There is no one to pet my messy hair as I sob.

you woke up with the photo in your hands. black and white. a woman. and a man in the diver suit. they must be smiling. you don't remember. you always ripped their faces along with the paper they were printed on.

you came back to your feelings in front of the mirror. same shape. same blues. same fucking face on every surface, in your films, in your head, in your own damn bed. you always turned away, unable to stomach his gaze burning through you.

this time, you gifted the mirror your clenched fist.

you weren't trembling, your hair were. you were real. the original. you came first, signed and sealed. you knew this since the day of birth. you clenched the shards in hands, boring them deeper. you felt the pain, not him. with each passing loop, you hated his guts more and more. with each passing loop, you wanted to rip his – your – own face apart.

you stumbled away from the bathroom.

the writer woke up with the weight on his chest. his hand landed on the head of hair. it was sticky. took wake a while to come back to his feelings, remember where he was. or why one's hair can feel this disgusting.

"zane? you're bleeding? what's going —?" – arms around him squeezed all the air out of the lungs.

the growling in his ear. "just fucking hug me."

alan obeyed. alan felt coldness on his neck. rising higher, grazing his cheek. meeting his lips. alan tasted salt. alan tasted blood.

bile rose to his throat.

"get the fuck away from me, you pervert!" – wake ripped himself away from the man, rushing, stumbling to the exit door. – "leave me alone!" wake was scared. shocked. in denial.

wake didn't notice how he got on his knees, mop of hair in zane's palm. wake winced when his head was yanked upwards. director's gaze burning through him. mutilated palm cupping his cheek.

"you never escape. you won't escape. please. let me comfort you, my dear."

gore staining his beard.

wake was terrified.